


A Thing Of Beauty

by myhamsterisademon



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, M/M, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 22:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19858852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: Athos’ smile is different than what d’Artagnan remembers. It is infinitely sweet, a touch of melancholy in it, maybe sadness.





	A Thing Of Beauty

Athos’ smile is different than what d’Artagnan remembers. It is infinitely sweet, a touch of melancholy in it, maybe sadness.   
  
It makes his blood boil. It makes his heart ache in yearning and longing, in desire mingled with rage. He knows he has two choices, he knows he only has to follow what he _really_ wants, deep down, but d’Artagnan is a Gascon, and Gascons are proud, and Gascons never take back their words nor swallow their pride.   
  
Athos’ lazy, indulgent smile makes his blood boil, and the wine they have drank does not help matters -- but then in a flash he remembers Athos’ gesture, his invitation to kill him if d’Artagnan’s honour required so. And he realises he has never even been given _a choice_ because Athos has already taken a decision for him. The older man must see his realisation clear in his eyes (it makes his blood boil, that too, the way Athos has always been able to read right through his soul, from the first day -- but it is different, now, hotter, more about love than anger), because he stretches a hand and clasps d’Artagnan, bringing it to his heart.  
  
“Athos,” d’Artagnan says, his voice broken but his heart free, “what has happened to us, my friend? Where are the Inseparables gone?”  
  
Athos smiles, and for a second the Musketeer can see his old friend again -- his smile is bitter, sardonic.  
  
“Politics,” he says, simply, “politics happened to us.”   
  
He gets up, then, dragging d’Artagnan with him, and puts his arms around his waist. D’Artagnan imperceptibly tenses, but not even that escapes Athos’ notice. He smiles again, that sweet, tender smile of his that he has always reserved only for d’Artagnan, and now Raoul.   
  
“We have taken an oath, and I have sworn my love to you,” he says. “I do hope you don’t think me so changed that I would lie about such a sacred thing,” he adds after a moment’s hesitation. “Won’t you kiss me, now?”  
  
D’Artagnan looks at him, for a second, and then surges up and kisses him like a man who has found the fountain of eternal life. The kiss is heated, all the passion of their previous arguments seeping into it -- Athos slips his tongue in his mouth, groans against him and his hands go to d’Artagnan’s jaws to keep him steady as he bites his lips, as he kisses him like his life depends on it. The Musketeer is panting, already half-hard in his trousers (twenty years ago, he would have been painfully hard even from just a kiss, but time passes for everybody), gripping Athos’ shoulder, walking backwards towards the bed, lying down and dragging Athos on top of him.   
  
Athos slips a leg between his thighs, and d’Artagnan moans shamelessly, rubbing himself against it already -- and he almost sobs in delight when Athos finds and kisses that spot (that spot that only _he_ knows, and that hasn’t been touched in years) behind his ear that makes his body melt. He realises that, however changed they both are, neither of them has forgotten the other. He feels no shame, no anger, no fear when, with a wanton moan, he slides a hand between Athos’ own thighs (and Athos is _hard_ , he realises, both of them are). The older man almost keens, and kisses him fiercely as d’Artagnan rubs and presses against him through his trousers, himself rutting against Athos’ thighs.  
  
“Stop,” Athos says, after a moment, voice tight and broken by a moan, “I will come if you do not stop.”  
  
“That seems a terrible reason to stop,” d’Artagnan whispers in reply and Athos grabs his hand to steady him, pinning it above his head.  
  
He looks at him dead in his eyes, terribly serious, and d’Artagnan feels his legs go weak at the sight of those eyes, at the remembrance of that tone of voice Athos used when fucking him -- and he stops, swallows weakly. There is a moment of pause.  
  
“I want to suck your cock,” Athos then says, and d’Artagnan moans immediately, getting even harder in his trousers and, when Athos brushes against him as he unbuckles his belt, he moans even louder. The sound echoes in the room of l’Ermitage and d’Artagnan is certain that Aramis and Porthos can hear it from the other bedroom -- the thought arousing him even more.   
  
“What are they doing, do you think?” he asks once his cock is free and Athos has shimmied down the bed on his knees, his back arched and lips inches from where d’Artagnan _really_ wants him.  
  
“Certainly not playing cards, I hope,” Athos says with a smile and the Musketeer realises he didn’t even need to specify _who_ was they.   
  
“God, I love you,” he says, but his words end in a wordless moan when Athos licks a long stripe along his cock.   
  
“Be quiet,” Athos whispers, and d’Artagnan goes silent immediately, bringing a hand to his mouth, biting against it when Athos swallows him down almost to the hilt. He sucks him, tongue alternatively brushing the head or curling around his cock, throat relaxed and easy, taking him in like he has been doing nothing but _that_ his whole life. D’Artagnan holds back as much as he can, whimpering, moaning and crying out -- holding the sheets as not to buck his hips.   
  
Athos, as always, realises this and he slides off for a second, just the time to say, his voice hoarse:  
  
“You can fuck me, if you want.”  
  
D’Artagnan sobs, overwhelmed, and his hips jerk up almost against his will, fucking into that tight, warm mouth and Athos, too, moans around him.   
  
It is those sounds -- Athos keening and sighing around his cock, as if he had spent those twenty fucking years just waiting to have it in his mouth again -- more than anything else that send d’Artagnan over the edge, that make him cry out and arch his back and come down Athos’ throat.  
  
He does not know how much time has passed, how long they have been in that room -- it could be hours or days -- but he could not care less.   
  
He could not care less, not with Athos on his back, thighs spread open, a thin sheet of sweat clinging to his body, whimpering as d’Artagnan spreads and twists the two fingers he has inside him, as he kisses his lips with a sweetness that melts both their hearts.   
  
“More,” Athos says, curt as ever, and d’Artagnan laughs, but there is no mockery in it -- only a love and a fondness so strong it has never faded in twenty years of absence. He indulges him, slips a third oiled finger in him and thrusts a little more, twists, opens him up a little more. “Harder,” Athos groans then and d’Artagnan obeys once again, fucking him harder, and after that it takes only a half-dozen of thrusts for Athos to come, cock untoched, back arching on the back and his mouth open in a soundless moan; the sight so beautiful it makes d’Artagnan almost come again.  
  
He thinks that Athos is beautiful in the candlelight, a tired smile on his lips, chest heaving. A laugh leaves his mouth and d’Artagnan kisses him again, love overwhelming him again.  
  
“My friend,” Athos says, breathlessly, “this night was worth waiting for twenty years.”  
  
“This night, and many more to come,” d’Artagnan whispers, and he can feel Athos smile against his lips.


End file.
